#Godlovesherbest

Continued from Previous Post… First Responders

 

“But Daddy, I want to go with you,” pleaded Dominic.

“I know you do Buddy, but you need to stay here and play with Nana and Christian. I need to go to the hospital to be with Mommy. Ok?”                                            

The ambulance had just departed, with a semi-conscious Alyssa, for the emergency room. With little time to stop and think, Andre urgently, yet calmly, gathered a few items, kissed the boys goodbye and left to follow the ambulance. Alone with the boys, I went into full-action, base-camp mode. I set up my laptop computer at the end of the kitchen table and placed both boys in front of it: Dominic in his booster chair and Christian in his high chair. I placed the screen just out of the reach of little boy, push-the-button fingers, and turned on the Mini Adventures of Winnie the Pooh. I’m a big fan of Pooh and his forest friends. The boys and I love to sing the songs and read the books together. These short, 3-minute movies play one right after the other. I stopped to consider that Alyssa is not too fond of using videos to entertain her children. Hoping the movies would give me the opportunity I needed to distract the boys, collect my thoughts and make phone calls, I knew she would understand. I was relieved, it worked like a charm. Whenever I think back on that late afternoon at Alyssa’s home in Oklahoma, the theme song from Winnie the Pooh plays in the background of my mind.

“Deep in the Hundred Acres Wood, where Christopher Robin plays…”

I called Richard and Papa Fred, giving them an update on Alyssa’s condition. As experienced physicians, they deliberately spoke calmly, still I sensed their alarm over Alyssa’s critical condition. 

“…you’ll find the enchanted neighborhood, of Christopher’s childhood days…”

Richard reassured me he was on his way and would be here as soon as possible. I knew he would make the 5 1/2 hour drive in record time.

“…a donkey named Eeyore is his friend, and Kanga and little Roo…”

When I told Papa Fred how Alyssa had thrown her arm over her eyes when the medics wheeled her into the bright, September sunshine, he commented that most likely, something was going on with her brain.

“…and Tigger too!”

I called my sister-in-law Tammy to let her know what was happening. A nurse, living in the area, she was on her way home from work. Did I want her to come? “No, not yet. Let me hear from Andre.” I felt I needed to be with the boys.

“…There’s Rabbit and Piglet and there’s Owl…”

I called my mom to let her know what was happening. I knew she would be in touch with our extended family.

Andre texted me and Richard: Alyssa was in a room at the ER. They were doing blood work and a chest X-ray. Richard wrote back, “She needs a CT of the head ASAP. They’ve got to rule out increased intracranial pressure.”

We continued to correspond by text messaging. Almost an hour later, a text from Andre arrived that changed everything. There it was in print. The culmination of my unnamed dread flashed across the iPhone screen in a little green and white text box, not even a 1/2” tall,

Just got the CT scan results.  She has a little mass on the left side of her brain. It’s causing some pressure and bleeding.  They’re calling in a neurosurgeon now to consult.

I called Tammy. I had to get to the hospital.

Neurosurgeon will see her later this evening.  They’re also contacting oncology to see if this may be related to her melanoma.

She’s in the MRI room now.  Blood pressure dropped really low.  They’re giving her IV fluids to boost it.  It was 83 systolic at its lowest.

I’m in the MRI waiting area.  They’ve said multiple times to invite the out of town family to come.

“…but most of all, Winnie-the-…”

Invite the out of town family to come?

Thank goodness for Tammy. I knew the boys would be in great hands. They never even missed a beat.

I could have been, maybe I should have been, a wreck. I actually felt reasonably calm. While driving to the ER, I called Richard and asked where he was along his route, and why were they telling Andre to call in the family? I don’t recall his exact answer. In retrospect, I’m certain I was in shock. Normally good with cardinal directions, I got disoriented and drove, not to the south Emergency Room entrance, but to the northeast entrance of the hospital. Even though it was after work hours, it was difficult to find a parking place. The doors at this entrance were unlocked, but the place was vacant. Why were large sections of the hospital shut down for the night? However, in my estimation, the hospital appeared relatively small. I WOULD find Alyssa.

I remember feeling frustrated. I followed the distant light, through the empty waiting areas, calling for help, until I found someone to assist me. A lady in scrubs, gave me directions to the MRI waiting area. I walked through a blur of eerily quiet, semi-lit spaces, resting from their daytime use. In minutes that felt like hours, I found Andre in the MRI waiting area, or rather, by phone tag, he found me. There were only a few lights on here as well, and we sat directly under their glow. In my mind’s eye, there we sit, like characters on a stage: cameras rolling, spotlights on. Waiting. Together. The neurosurgeon was with Alyssa during the MRI. As I called Richard to let him know I had found Andre, the neurosurgeon left the imaging room. We watched as he emerged from the darkened shadows to join us under the lights. I still had Richard on the phone, so I asked the doctor if he would talk to my husband, an ophthalmologist from Little Rock. After gaining permission from Andre, I handed the doctor my phone. Andre and I listened to their conversation. I knew Richard would value a firsthand report from a fellow physician, rather than my non-medical translation. I also knew Richard would be best at interpreting the information about Alyssa and explaining it to us.

The neurosurgeon’s words were mostly gibberish to me. But, within the medical jargon spoken, three terms tumbled in my brain like heavy tennis shoes in a dryer:    Thump.   Thump.    Thump.

                Mass.                 Hemorrhage.                 99% SURE IT IS METASTATIC MELANOMA.

When the word, melanoma, was uttered, Andre and I tightly held hands. I did not understand all that it meant to have a brain mass and hemorrhage. I DID know what it meant to have metastatic melanoma. Because of the melanoma skin lesion she’d had surgically removed from her scalp, I had been told almost 5 years ago: there is no good treatment for melanoma that spreads internally through the body. But, with only a 5% chance of recurrence, I never truly believed we would be facing this prognosis for our daughter.

But here the neurosurgeon sat, his words confirming our worst fears. He told Richard a couple of times that he had young daughters as well, and that he was so sorry.    Thump.

Unprompted, he also defended the actions of the emergency room staff, justifying why they had not performed a CT scan on Alyssa during her two previous visits to the ER that week.   Thump.

Next, he reported they were giving Alyssa steroids to reduce the swelling in her brain. Her brain is swelling?   Thump.
His plan was to operate on Tuesday to remove the brain mass and hemorrhage, once she was stable. Now, to me, that sounded encouraging. Because he had given me hope, something in the future to focus on, I felt somewhat reassured. 

They concluded their conversation and I told Richard I would call him back. Andre and I asked the doctor a couple of questions. I tried to focus, but it’s strange how you can be listening to someone speak and at the same time have an entire conversation with yourself in your head:

Just last week, Alyssa discovered a small lump on her hip. She had seen her primary care physician who scheduled an ultrasound. This week, on Wednesday, she was in the ER with vomiting and a severe headache. They gave her anti-nausea medicine and she felt a little bit better, but she was too sick to go to her ultrasound appointment. She was back in the ER Thursday night, dehydrated. They gave her fluids and once again, she felt a little bit better and was sent home. Now it is Friday. For the third day in a row, she has been in the ER. 

Metastatic Melanoma. Doesn’t cancer happen to other people? A mass in her brain? Is the lump on her hip melanoma? Is this all related? Can this be true? Why are they 99% sure the brain mass is melanoma and not something else? Doesn’t it normally take extensive tests and time to determine what a mass is? I’ll have to ask Richard about that. 

I tried to refocus my attention on the doctor. More words:     Thump.    Thump.    Thump.
I’d heard enough. 

Now it was just the two of us. Alyssa’s mother. Alyssa’s husband. Andre and I instinctively clung to one another as we sat in that small pool of light, creating a shield of defense against the darkness and confusion that tried to overwhelm us. In that embrace, wordlessly, we each determined to help the other. I looked at Andre, this precious son-in-law, so different from Alyssa. She, with her pale skin and hazel eyes, and quiet, introspective nature, happiest when home with her family and a book close by.  In contrast, Andre has an olive complexion, black hair and eyes, a contagious laugh and an adventurous spirit. But, in those tear-glazed eyes, I did not see his usual humor. I saw what bonded our hearts: so much love, so much pain, so much faith. Not the kind of faith that believes in certain outcomes. But the kind of faith that believes God loves us. Faith that He will see us through, whatever may come.

So, in that moment, we did what we do– we prayed. With broken voices, we pleaded with God for Alyssa’s life. As we prayed, I found myself repeating an often said term of endearment and truth in our family. My mom started it years ago with her grandchildren. She would always tell them, “I love you best.”

I prayed over and over again, “I trust God loves her best . . . Andre, we have to trust God loves Alyssa more than you or I or her father ever could. No matter what happens, we have to trust God loves her best . . . Oh, dear God, help us trust You. . . . Help us trust You love her best.”

#Godlovesherbest. It’s been such an important prayer for our journey that I have used it as a hashtag on Facebook as I continue to tell our story. But, where does that leave me now? In the past 7 months, my moods have been all over the place. They bounce from shock, to faith, to denial, to sorrow, to loneliness, to anguish, to peace, to fear, to anger, to grief, to doubt, to confusion, to hope. Most days, I do believe that God loves Alyssa better than any human being ever could. I know I cannot rely on my own feelings and understanding. But, some days I doubt God loves her best. On those days, I pray and beg God to help me in my unbelief. 

 But, in that MRI waiting room, when a mother and her son-in-law bowed their heads together in prayer, those four words meant everything. They gave me strength. I believed that no matter what might happen, we could trust God with Alyssa’s life, because in my heart, I knew– God loves her best.

It is what He does.

#Godlovesherbest 

 

This post is Part 3 of the story of how our journey with cancer began.  Read the rest of the story here:

PART 1: WHAT ARE THE ODDS?
PART 2: FIRST RESPONDERS
PART 3: #GODLOVESHERBEST
PART 4: THE SOUND OF SILENCE
PART 5: KEEPING WATCH BY NIGHT
PART 6: WHEN WORDS MATTER MOST
Part 7: Don’t Worry, Daddy
Part 8: A Mother’s Prayer

 

Photograph by Richard Harper, New Mexico